Monthly Archives: July 2011

two poems

I.

Here is broken underfoot a sub-miracle of clay
within held something, resemble, faces if
the light is right, the clouds crack so – above me
a freshly thrown memory: the realisation that
what hangs is the same as what is trodden daily –
night time is barely real, soon you will see this too
and there, in soil, the words stop deep

II.

Somewhere the reaching barks break skin
and pierce bridge pierce arch, right through erupting
leaves shading steps and clamber calves, sallow thighs
don’t swallow as I bind myself in trees and write that
time is eaten by the time, all the rest danced in and
we almost did these things together: autumn creeps and
suddenly, we are old

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walk

pinewoods chase my nerves: it seems we
measure what is pushed down soles
aground: a gap which records our pace:

not only this: you saw me eating old snow
scraping nightings from my tongue
forming families: I swear I’d fit right in

stillness streams and I bend behind you:
twisting some leaf-matter, for an image
like this: our mouths always moved anyway


Five Poems from a Lakeside in Finland

I.

Here rushes to my plate glass a grasping of vision
amidst memories of meltwater, memories of rain.
Morning cracks and splits a hoarding of leeches;
amorphous reminders of our insides – a realisation;
the clouds above are moving south and pouring fine
heat onto a still-live set of receivers, prone bodies align
themselves; crackling sundials, fingernails pierce piers
and long-necked divers never see the snow yet remains
of crystals flatten their beaks. I still feel the water rocking
my body, inertia is real and tangible. Suddenly, a sound.

II.

Eight days can slip through wet hands, a week ago
nothing was or will be left of them – they said
I was there too, they said, it isn’t difficult to remember
anyhow, the noon doesn’t know how to end, up here
and the evenings won’t get shorter

for one of us, the lengthening of hours won’t stop

some of us can’t help but feel the change. For some,
quite the opposite occurs.

III.

We are the act of hiding our feet from view, changes
in birth patterns, blame some ancestor;
for my bones jut at angles and yours do too

they filled mine with metal pins, incisive actions,
cast me up. I hear you were built a scaffold, I
would have sat with you, had I known and now

still, I lie on my chest and seek out indented floorboards –
the time you spent weighing in space seconds
lingered here, filling a wanting piece of air with steps

IV.

screaming boatwood, bridging
this place, this view-
-ing oar rises and
rips a wake, seconds trail

my soles, torn, gathering memory and
an absence of the start of dusk, my

furrowing of long mists, some-
where, black water,
a shattering.

V.

A secondary drowning, numbers fill a space
normally reservoired for basic impulses – drip
fed inhalation, memories of outward breath

covered by reeds and the knowledge we can
choke forever in two inches of an indoor sea

hair separates into hairs, garments become none –
life shatters and flees around a flailing, the blood
hungry rush towards the fading heat and somehow

we remember how to pierce the ceiling, hanging
heavy with all that sky, one day we’ll all run
and run out of what we forget is almost endless air


I’m still here no.4

spectrums fracture a beak-torn film
and water fills all the gaps cracked
into my heels, hardened by youth and
shattered by volcanic glass. somehow
separation strangled a child, a bird
splits my sight in two and I miss
something in you I missed before yet

I’m still here